Causatum
by Project7723
Summary: In the aftermath of 1x08 Jack Ryan relies on the two people he trusts most. Twoshot. [Previously posted as "Aftermath" under Tom Clancy.]
1. Jack

**_Disclaimer: I am not smart enough to be entrusted with Jack Ryan, or any other Tom Clancy material. *Schultz voice* I own nothing! Nothing!_**

_(Ryan)_

I close my eyes and let my pounding head rest against the cool wall of the subway station. An EMT prods at the hole in my shoulder as the buzz of voices slices through my numb mind, making it even harder to think.

_A gunshot. Suleiman hits the ground, blood blooming from beneath him._

A hand thunks on my good shoulder, and my eyes fly open, the flashback gone as suddenly as it appeared.

"Good work today, Ryan." Nathan Singer's voice is too loud and friendly, and the series of sound slaps he gives my right shoulder sends jarring pain through my left. "You did your country proud."

My jaw clenches._ I just killed a man._

"Excuse me, sir..." The EMT ushers him away, and I sigh with relief, my eyes falling closed again.

_Ali staggers and falls, confusion written on his face. He looks at me. Tears leave tracks in the blood on his cheeks. His breath rattles in his lungs, and he goes slack._

The EMT grasps the collar of my shirt, and the chill flat of the scissors sends a shudder through me.

_Sayim smiles, aiming his Polaroid at me._ _**Flash.**_

"Try to sit still, Doc."

_Sayim holds up the grenade, peering at me from beneath dirty hair. He pulls the pin. There's a bright light, and then pain. The woman in the next seat goes limp against me. Blood pours down Sayim's face. I can't breathe, and we fall._

A cellphone rings nearby. I open my eyes. The network must be back up.

Before I have time to finish the thought, my phone explodes with text alerts in my back pocket.

_Cathy._

Interrupted once more, the EMT grunts in disapproval as I fish painfully in my jeans for the phone. "Can this wait, Dr. Ryan? I need to stop the bleeding."

"No," I glance at him. "Sorry." I give the barrage of texts a quick scan.

9:03: _Are you ok?_

9:04: _Jack?_

9:06: _Where are you?_

9:17: _Jack_

9:20: _Let me know you're ok_

I punch her number and bring the phone to my ear.

The EMT frowns. "Dr. Ryan-"

"Two minutes."

Halfway through the second ring, she picks up.

"Jack?"

I let out the breath I was unknowingly holding. "Hey."

"Hey."

"Are you okay? Are you safe?"

"I'm-yeah, uh, I'm fine. I'm okay."

Relief makes me dizzy. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm okay. Just, uh...Long night at work."

I can't help the smirk as I huff in response. "No kidding."

"Are you okay?" Her voice is serious again.

"I'm fine." The EMT shoots me an incredulous look. "Relatively," I amend.

"Jack, what's going on?"

I sigh. The last of the adrenaline seems to drain from my veins, and I'm exhausted. "I can't tell you that, Cathy. At least-not yet." My eyes drift to the corpse of Mousa Bin Suleiman, sprawled in a puddle of his own congealing blood. "But I can tell you that it's over."

A beat.

"Okay. That's good enough for me."

I groan, shooting a glare at the ceiling. The lights glare back. I close my eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"Buster was right. You are too good for me."

She laughs.

I frown. I wasn't trying to be funny.

The EMT clears his throat. Right.

"Hey, uh, I've gotta go," I say.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. See you soon?"

"Yeah."

"Jack?" Her voice is tentative.

"Yeah?"

A beat.

"I - nothing. Just...take care of yourself, okay?" Her voice is soft.

A smile tugs at my lips. "I'll do my best. Talk soon."

"Okay." The line goes dead.

"Like that's ever been good enough."

I turn to see Greer standing by the gurney, appraising me skeptically. I realize that if Greer was able to hear Cathy's admonishment, the EMT must have heard the whole conversation.

I surprise myself by not caring.

"What's that supposed to mean?" My voice comes out sounding flat.

He grunts. "I read up on you, Bright Boy. Wanna talk about the helicopter crash, of which you were the only survivor, and barely that? Or maybe the IRA attack in London, in which you got shot being an idiot, _Sir_ Jack? The first time I saw you, you were about an inch shy of getting flattened by my car, and the first time I take you out in the field you get yourself kicked into the 22nd century by a couple of trigger-happy terrorists. Now you're sitting on a gurney with a hole in your shoulder and the nerve to ask me what I mean?" He pauses for air. "It's a wonder you're even still breathing, Ryan."

I blink. "Oh," I offer.

"Uh-huh." Greer glances at the EMT, now applying a local anesthetic. "He gonna be okay?"

The EMT nods. "Bleeding's stopped. Just gonna stitch him up and sling him up, and he can be on his merry way. Provided that way leads to some place he can get some rest." He looks at me pointedly.

"Won't get any arguments from me." I want nothing more than to collapse into my bed.

As if on cue, Singer's aide materializes at Greer's side, muttering something in his ear.

Greer sighs. "Yeah, yeah. Give the man a minute to breathe." He looks at me almost apologetically.

I groan. Of course debriefing would come before sleep.

* * *

A/N:

_Fun fact: The ULA attack Greer references is from the books, in which Jack Ryan is actually a knight. Yeah. He was granted a knighthood by Queen Elizabeth herself, when the poor chap was in the wrong place at the wrong time (or the right place at the right time?), and accidentally saved Prince Charles, Princess Diana, and newborn Prince William from terrorists. It's technically honorary, because you can't be both a knight and an American, but to the Queen, it was quite legit. Fictionally. Because it happened in Patriot Games, which I'm told is not actually a historical account of historical events. Who knew?_  
_Anyway. It's not mentioned in the show, but I mean...It's way to cool too pass up._

_Feedback welcome! Thanks for reading, folks. Chapter Two should be up soon! - 7723_


	2. Greer

**_Disclaimer: Once again, I own nothing. Except for the receptionist. And the lobster beach towel._**

_[Greer]_

Two hours in, and Ryan's beginning to droop. As if the kid ain't white enough already, his face has grown alarmingly pale, exaggerating the dark blotches rimming his bloodshot eyes.

"Okay, Ryan," Singer glances up before returning to the notes he's scribbling. "And how did you know they were going to hit the hospital?"

"It was the only thing that made sense." He drags his hand over his face. "That diner... From a strategic standpoint, there was no reason for bombing that diner unless it was a set up to something bigger. And with the President and who knows how many other members of Congress at the hospital..." He trails off.

"He did the same thing in France," I assert, "when he took out that priest. A small scale target to provide cover and opportunity for the bigger goal."

Singer nods, never looking up. He's been ignoring me as much as possible over the last couple hours. I roll my eyes.

"And how long were you at the scene before you put this together and made for the hospital?" A pause. "Ryan."

When Ryan doesn't answer, I look at him. His eyes are lifted, unblinking, skyward. I follow his gaze to the spinning blades of the ceiling fan above Singer's desk. He shudders. Newspaper photos of a wrecked chopper run through my memory, and I connect the dots.

"We didn't stop," I answer quickly. "He figured it out on the way."

"Mhmm. Am I boring you, Dr. Ryan?"

Ryan's gaze swivels back to Singer. "What? Uh, no, I-" he glances at me, "-sorry, sir, what was the question?"

Singer inhales.

"Listen, sir, it's getting late." I check my watch before meeting his beady eyes. "Or early. What do you say we let the man get some rest, and finish this up tomorrow?" _I'm not exactly brimming with energy either._

Singer offers an overly regretful smile. "You know procedure. Memory's fresher directly after an incident. Afterwards, it all gets jumbled." He waves his hand for emphasis.

"Singer, there's nothing remotely fresh about Dr. Ryan right now. Man did good. Not to mention, he took a bullet. I think he's earned a little sleep."

Singer looks at Ryan.

Ryan blinks sluggishly. "I'm okay." I think it may be the first time I've heard a word from him that isn't backed with all the conviction in him.

Singer sighs. "Okay, Jim. You win. Get some rest, gentlemen; I'll get back to you tomorrow."

Jack and I mumble our thanks and make our way to the elevator.

I hit the button for the first floor as Jack gingerly leans against the wall, emitting a sigh that sounds like it comes from his bones.

Huh. I smirk a little. For all the grief I gave the man in the beginning, he's earned my respect, and...

I look at him. His head rests against the paneling of the elevator, eyes closed. I turn the matter over in my head for a minute longer before reaching my conclusion.

Yes, Jack Ryan, the analyst from the first floor with a PhD in economics of all things, has earned not only my respect, but my trust as well.

I realize that he's the only one who fits that description right now. Kid's too good for his own good. He's seen the worst the world has to offer, and he still reaches out to offer aid and defense.

I know that kind of idealism won't last long in this line of work. Mine didn't. The sooner he wises up the better-optimism is all good and well, but in this job... I shake my head. It's gonna get him killed.

Still. A pang of regret washes through me.

The day Jack Ryan loses his idealism will be a day the world loses something it sorely needs.

A sniffle interrupts my musing.

I look up to see Ryan smearing tears from his eyes with the heel of his (still somewhat bloody) right hand.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's up?" Before I know it, I'm at his side, turning him to check his shoulder. "Talk to me, Ryan."

"No, it's-I'm fine." He swats my hand away. "I don't know-" his breath hitches. "Ah, I don't know what this is." He tries for a deep breath.

I consider him for a moment. He appears to be physically fine.

Well, you know. Mostly.

Exhaustion, I figure. Yet another downside to such lofty ideals is the mental and emotional toll that comes with investing everything you've got.

He's got himself mostly under control now, which is fortunate, because the elevator dings and the doors slide open.

"Alright, Bright Boy. Let's get you to a car."

He runs a hand over his face and nods.

We make our way, slowly, across the lobby to yet another elevator, this one leading to the parking garage. A receptionist takes in Jack's disheveled appearance, starting at his sling and making her way past his cut and bloody shirt to his red, swollen eyes.

I level her with the best threatening glare I can muster at the moment. Her eyes retreat back to her computer screen, and the elevator doors whir closed.

When we get to my car, I pop the trunk, rummaging around until I find what I need. _Ah._ I pull the old beach towel out and make my way over to the passenger side.

Jack frowns. "Planning a beach trip?"

"Nah, this is for when I have to haul bullet-ridden white boys around in my car." I lean inside, arranging the towel over the seat's back. "It's hard to explain away bloodstains to people who think I'm a retired Naval officer."

"Greer," he starts.

"Come on." I straighten with a grunt. "Did you actually think I was gonna let you try to drive yourself home? Get in the car."

I'm surprised at his lack of protest as he eases himself in. I get in my own seat and start the car.

"Greer."

I turn to look at him.

"Thanks."

"You got it, Ryan. Anytime." I meet his eyes. My meaning goes deeper than my words, and I want to make sure he gets that.

He looks at me for a moment, then nods.

We drive in silence for a while, the city lights flashing past us in the night.

"Lobsters? Really?" Ryan says eventually. He jerks his head in the general direction of the towel.

I shrug. "The other option was Hello Kitty."

"Hm. Good choice."

Thirty-seven miles later, we pull up in front of Ryan's apartment building. Not long after we left Langley, Ryan had closed his eyes, and not long after that, his breathing had evened out in sleep.

Pulling the key from the ignition, I consider the situation for a moment. Ryan's face is smashed into his good shoulder, head against the window. I wince just thinking about the cricks he'll have tomorrow.

Then again, I think, eyeing his sling, cricks will be the least of his problems.

"C'mon, Sleeping Beauty. Let's get you inside."

Nothing.

"Ryan."

He jerks, eyes opening sluggishly. He takes in his surroundings. "How do you know where I live?" He slurs.

I almost laugh. "Son, we work for the CIA."

He blinks. "Oh."

Shaking my head, I climb out of my seat. I cross to the passenger side and open the door. As Ryan fumbles with his seat belt, I give the neighborhood a once-over. Apart from the distant barking of a dog, all was quiet. You'd think tonight had been a night just like any other.

Finally winning the battle with his seat belt, Ryan swings his feet onto the pavement and accepts my proffered hand. Between my haul and his launch, he comes up too quickly, crying out when his shoulder smacks into my chest.

_"Easy, easy."_ I do my best to steady him, but when he can't find sure footing I swing his good arm over my shoulder and wrap my arm around his middle. I shift his weight around a bit. "You know, you're heavier than you look, Ryan," I grunt.

"Sorry."

The trip to the door takes way longer than it should, and we're both out of breath by the time we make it and remember that we're gonna need a key. I stand there, sweating, as Ryan drunkenly shuffles around in his pockets.

When at last we step into the dark hall, I think my back may never fully straighten again, and Ryan is nearly dead weight.

"Where's your room, Jack?" I jostle him a bit. "Jack."

"Hmm?"

"If you don't tell me where your room is now, I'm going to drop you on the couch and leave you there."

He tries to point, but it turns out as more of a spasm. I realize his arm must be asleep from the way it's been pulled over my shoulders. "There," he tries again, nodding his head towards a doorway in what looks to be a dining-room-turned-office.

Staggering into the room, I free a hand with difficulty and smack along the wall until I find the light switch. From there, it's three clumsy steps to the bed, where I deposit Jack with a less than graceful flail. I lift his feet onto the bed, pull off his shoes, and plop, panting, on the edge.

When I've caught my breath, I turn my attention to Ryan once more. He's out like a light, but his position looks to be about six different levels of uncomfortable, and as I eye the bandage on his shoulder, it occurs to me that leaving the man in his filthy, blood-crusted shirt probably isn't the healthiest option.

I heave a sigh and go in search of a pair of scissors. I don't have to go far-there's one on the dining room/office table.

I consider the best way to go about the business. Each option involves a fair amount of jostling, and eventually I decide the best plan is to cut the shirt straight down the front and go from there. Ryan stirs as I work it off his right arm, but other than that, my progress goes uninhibited until I make my way to the sling. I curse. _How am I supposed to get it around that thing?_

After what feels like a long struggle, I successfully complete my task and toss the shirt-now in three pieces-into the nearby trash can. _Hope you weren't partial to that one._

I drag myself to my feet once more and do my best to get Ryan into a position that won't result in an unscheduled trip to the chiropractor. His pale skin is uncomfortably cool and clammy. Once his head is on the pillow and the rest of him looks reasonably comfortable, I drag the comforter out from under him, desperately wishing I'd thought of that before I put him down. I spread it over him and step back to survey my work.

I sigh in satisfaction. He looks comfortable.

I suddenly become aware of how uncomfortable I am. Exhaustion pulls at my eyelids, my head aches, and my back is cramping from my burden of earlier. I want nothing more than sleep. And my bed is very far away.

Ryan's couch, on the other hand...

I weigh the idea for a moment.

Then Jack tosses suddenly, a low moan escaping his lips. I step to his side and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you're okay. You're okay." After a moment, he stills, and I make up my mind. No way am I leaving him alone.

I grab a blanket from the foot of Ryan's bed and turn to go to the couch, flipping out the lights as I go.

I pause, turning back in the doorway.

He's sleeping peacefully now, but...

I want to be where I can keep an eye on him. Apparently the couch _is_ too far away. I spot an arm chair in the corner of his room, and head in it's direction.

I pause by the side of his bed.

"Ryan," I say, knowing he can't hear me. "If you need me, I'm here."

I sink into the chair, put up the foot rest, lean back, and close my eyes. The warmth of the blanket envelops me, and I'm asleep almost instantly.

* * *

Here's chapter two! Hope y'all enjoyed! I know it's a lot longer than the first chapter, so if you're reading this, thank you for sticking around this long! Constructive comments/criticism/advice always welcome. :) Thank you for taking the time out of your day to read my story - I appreciate it more than you know. Have a phenomenal week, and God bless!

-7723


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